For someone who’s supposed to be a highly trained supersleuth, he’s awfully easy to pickpocket. “What’s the deal with this? Special gift from Papi Klemens?” He snatches it out of my hand. “Will you please refrain”—I pass him his writing charcoal—“from robbing me”—and his makeshift notebook—“while I’m working?” Then he lets out an exasperated sigh. “I need my spectacles to see, Miss Schmidt.”
